He could be wrong, but he didn’t think so. His certainty was like a familiar itch. The other woman in the photo was Belinda St. Johns.
He took out his notebook and jotted down a few remarks to himself, including what the building manager had told him when he had stopped by the man’s office on the way up.
The apartment was owned by a French woman, who used it infrequently and apparently lived abroad. Wickham had moved in about four months before as a rental tenant. No doubt the other residents were less than pleased to have a young black model for a neighbor, and were doubtless bent on effecting her removal—but carefully. There was the city’s anti-discrimination code to contend with.
Now a man on a motorcycle had ended their predicament for them.
Lanham had written down the Frenchwoman’s name—C.C. Delasante, from Juan les Pins, France. The manager said he had never met the Delasante woman, but he had held his job less than a year. He’d heard she was a real looker, and very rich.
The day doorman had never met the woman either, but he had gotten to know Molly Wickham fairly well. He said she had a number of boyfriends and gentleman callers. One of them had come to Wickham’s apartment early in the previous afternoon—not very long after the shooting. He hadn’t stayed long. He apparently had a key to the apartment, and the doorman had seen him several times before, usually in the early morning. The doorman described him as a big man with glasses, as big as Lanham. He’d been one of a number of men who’d visited Wickham in the past—all of them white.
“You say they finished the canvass?” Lanham asked one of the uniformed men.
“Yes sir. I don’t think they learned much, though. She didn’t have any friends in the building.”
“Did the evidence techs turn up any prints?”
“Yes sir. A lot of prints. Several different sets. And they found a used condom in the bed.”
Lanham smiled.
“And there was a piece of a box there, too. A video tape box. It said ‘VHS.’”
Now Lanham frowned. “Video tape?”
“Yeah. They took it down to the lab, along with all the garbage.”
Lanham looked at the television console. There was a VCR machine at the bottom. He went over to it, turned it on, and hit the EJECT button. Nothing came out.
“What about C.C. Delasante?” he said to the uniformed man.
“Sir?”
“The French woman who owns this place. Did anyone know anything about her?”
“Don’t know, sir.”
Lanham made a few more notes. Before he left, he put the photo of the two nude women into his briefcase.
Vanessa had two surprises for A.C. when he got to the office: Camilla Santee’s address and private phone number, and the news that Vanessa was going to another fur fashion show that morning in which Santee might be appearing.
“Her booker said she’s supposed to show up, though she canceled the rest of her jobs yesterday. By the little by, chéri, I now owe her booker about ten years’ worth of favors.”
He kissed her hand. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“Not that way, sweetie.”
The show was for one of New York’s major houses, the designer a man whose picture was frequently in W magazine and the Women’s Wear Daily “Eye” gossip column. A.C. had often seen him in Mortimer’s. The show, performed on a stage rather than a runway, was very flashy, with lots of dazzling lighting effects and upbeat music, but Camilla was not there.
A.C. sat morosely pondering that fact. He’d slipped out once to use the unlisted phone number Vanessa had given him, but there had been no answer, not even by an answering machine.
“Dull, dull, dull,” Vanessa said. “Incroyable. The man simply has no guts. These are coats he could have sold ten or twenty years ago.”
“I don’t understand,” A.C. said.
“The Japanese and Taiwanese bought a lot of pelts last year and now they’re flooding the market with coats. It’s a soft market. Prices are down and so are sales. So the king of fashion here is playing it safe. These are for the one-coat woman.”
“One-coat woman?”
“Women who can only afford one fur coat and want it to last. Not the kind of woman who has a number of furs and buys new ones to keep up with trends. Instead of trying to make a fashion statement this year, the great genius has come out with safe, traditional coats that are guaranteed to sell. It makes me mad. There are a lot of young kids around with some really terrific designs, but the manufacturers stick with people like this. Make a buck, make a buck, make a buck.”
“It’s a global tragedy.”
“Fashion is important, A.C.”
“Especially to the animals who die for it.”
The word “die” stuck in his mind long after he said it. Molly Wickham had been wearing a fur half an hour before she’d been killed. What had she died for?
Afterward, they stepped out into the milling, Hogarthian swarms crowding along Seventh Avenue, pushing their way to the curb to find a cab. It was another clear, sunny day.
A motorcycle came by, chugging and weaving through the stalled traffic, and they both tensed. It was a messenger.
“Are you going to any more shows?” A.C. asked.
“I’ve got Bill Blass and Geoffrey Beene after lunch,” she said.
“Do you think Camilla Santee will be in them?”
Vanessa gave him a sharp look. “I’m beginning to think Miss Santee has gone back to France. I’m also beginning to think that’s the best thing that could happen for you.”
Lieutenant Taranto had called for a meeting at 10:00 A.M., but it had been delayed by a visit from Assistant District Attorney Rosenbaum. While the other detectives on his team stood around drinking coffee and waiting, Lanham went through the initial evidence report from forensics and returned a few telephone calls. When Rosenbaum finally left, grim-faced and silent, Taranto motioned his men into his small cubicle. There were chairs only for three of them, but it didn’t matter. Lanham preferred to stand. So did Tony Gabriel, who took a place to the side of the lieutenant’s desk. He was holding a case file, and looking smug.
“The commissioner got an official federal inquiry on the Wickham murder this morning,” Taranto said.
“What the fuck do the feds care about a dead fashion model?” said Caputo. He was wearing a light gray suit this morning, with a pink shirt and purple tie.
Taranto shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me. Drugs maybe? What do you think, Ray?”
“I think it’s very interesting,” Lanham said. “What do they want from us?”
“Everything we got, which is still shit,” Taranto said. “It came direct from the Justice Department in Washington, not the local FBI. They said something about Wickham, Marjean Dorothy maybe relating to an ongoing investigation of theirs.
Lanham thought for a long moment. The others watched him. “I think we should run Wickham, Marjean Dorothy through the FBI computer files up here,” he said. “And I think we should ask Justice for everything they have on her.”
“I’ll see what we can get out of them,” Taranto said. He looked particularly tired. His eyes were little caves.
“Well, we’ve got more than shit,” Tony Gabriel said. He dropped the case file on the lieutenant’s cluttered desk as he might play a trump card. “I got this outta vice this morning. The Wickham broad was on the Deuce. She had a rap sheet.”
The others looked as astonished as he did pleased with himself. “The Deuce” was police jargon for Forty-second Street, not the fabled Times Square theater district advertised in the city convention bureau’s tourist commercials but the sleazy, neon-lit cesspool and sewer that ran through it between Sixth and Tenth Avenues—the workplace and social center of some of the most troublesome hookers, pimps, thieves, perverts, and wackos in New York.
Like a prosecutor in court, Gabriel flipped open the folder and began to read from the record: “Two arrests for soliciting a police officer and one for lewd conduct. She
didn’t do any time, though, except for overnights. The last one was four years ago. She gave her age as eighteen, but that was the usual bullshit.”
A short but eventful life—from the slums of Jersey City to the Deuce to porn movies to lingerie ads to the big-time fashion runways and Sutton Place.
And a big bullet on the fanciest street corner in Manhattan.
“But get this,” Gabriel continued. “Her fines were paid by Chauncey Ellis, Bad Bobby Darcy’s shyster.”
“So Darcy’s a pimp,” said Petrowicz. “Who else is gonna pay a hooker’s fines?”
“Bad ‘Biker’ Bobby,” Gabriel said. “He used to work the Deuce on the biggest fuckin’ Harley in town. And he’s a light skinned dude.”
“Bad Bobby’s in Do Right City,” said Petrowicz. “He got two to five in Mattawan for cutting one of his girls.”
“Yeah, well two to five’s up and he’s out,” said Gabriel, lighting a cigarette. “I checked. Boss, I think we got a suspect. Bobby keeps his girls working as long as they can turn any kind of trick, and this girl was in shape to do a hell of a lot more than twenty-dollar blow jobs. I think he took her out for quittin’ on him.”
“How did you get on to this, Tony?” Taranto asked.
“I got a tip from one of the other models. Belinda St. Johns. You talked to her yesterday, Ray.”
Gabriel was grinning. Lanham wasn’t.
“I think it’s bullshit,” Lanham said. “When a pimp like Bobby wants to whack a chippie, she turns up floating under a dock with her throat cut and the word gets put out on the street why. He wouldn’t pick high noon in front of the Plaza.”
“Bobby’s a razor artist,” Petrowicz said. “I don’t think he’s ever been caught with a piece.”
The lieutenant chewed on his lower lip. “I think we ought to bring him in, Ray. We can’t knock him, but we can lean on him a little—maybe get some squeal. Anyway it’s something the commissioner can give to the newsies.”
“We won’t have enough to charge him,” Lanham said. “The commissioner will look stupid.”
“Again,” said Petrowicz.
“Maybe,” Taranto said. “But we oughta talk to Bad Bobby. Run his mug shots by the witnesses, too. You want to take him, Ray?”
“I’ve got better things to do. I’m going back to the crime scene.”
“I’ll take him,” Gabriel said. “Me and Charley. With some help from Vice. Maybe some precinct backup.”
“I’ll set it up,” said Taranto. “Once you get a line on him. Where’s Chauncey Ellis?”
“Dead,” said Petrowicz. “Last year. Natural causes.”
“Enjoy yourselves,” Lanham said. He turned to Pat Cassidy. “The CSU got nothing at the scene, but the evidence techs picked up a whole lot of prints from her apartment. Why don’t you start running them through records by type? See if you can make any of them. Run them through the FBI, too. All right, boss?”
Taranto nodded.
“That’ll take a lot of time, Ray,” Cassidy said. “Don’t you want me out on the street?”
Out on the street, and into a bar.
“I know it will take a lot of time. That’s why I’d like you to start now.”
“What about our other cases, boss?” Cassidy said.
“What other cases?” the lieutenant said. “You read the morning papers. Unless someone shoots the mayor, there ain’t any other cases until we turn up a good lead on this one—and Tony, I don’t count Bad Biker Bobby as a good lead until you get him to where he’ll need a lawyer, capish?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Gabriel said.
The lieutenant’s decision to have Bad Biker Darcy picked up ended the meeting. Gabriel headed out to get his car, but Caputo lingered behind, saying he had to stop in the men’s room. He paused by Lanham’s desk.
“I think you want to empty your pisser, too, Ray,” he said quietly.
The restroom was empty except for a sergeant finishing up in one of the stalls. Caputo made a noisy display of washing his hands until the man had gone.
“Something you oughta know, Ray,” he said. “Tony got more than that tip from Belinda St. Johns. I’m pretty sure he got a piece of ass.”
“Tony gets a piece of ass just going to the grocery store.”
“It’s bad news, Ray. She’s Vince Perotta’s slash. We checked it out. I didn’t say nothing to anyone else, but Tony’s heading for an IAD investigation if he keeps it up. Maybe something worse. Fuck with a wiseguy’s broad and you’re in bigger trouble than if you turn stool pigeon.”
“I don’t need this, Charley. It’ll screw up the case.”
“Fucking A. So I thought you should know.”
“Thanks. See if you can keep Tony celibate for a while. Before Vince Perotta deals with his libido permanently.”
“What’s a libido? Something to do with his fucker?”
“Get going, Charley. Let me know when you’re ready to move on Biker Bobby.”
“I thought you didn’t want to be in on it.”
“No. I think it’s stupid, and I get nervous when I’m around stupid. But I want to know when it’s going down.”
When Lanham had been in the lobby of the Plaza the day before, it was to take it over as a command post for the initial crime scene investigation. A.C. James and the other witnesses had waited in it almost as prisoners, subserviant to the needs and desires of the police. Now the hotel was back to its aristocratic, normal self, and so was James, dressed in a crisp pin-striped summer suit, seated with elegant ease and poise. He rose to greet Lanham with a cordial smile and handshake—a generous host, a man in charge. Their roles from the previous day were completely reversed.
James looked a little nervous, though. And haggard, as though he hadn’t gotten any more sleep than Lanham had.
“It’s really good of you to come, Detective Lanham,” James said. “I know you must be very busy.”
“I am,” said Lanham curtly. He still resented the man’s condescension about his roses. “But I was going to come back here anyway. And I wanted to talk to you again. So I’m glad you called.”
“Good. Let’s go in to lunch. I’ve reserved a table.”
“Lunch?”
“Yes. So we can talk. Lunch is the newspaper columnist’s M.O. That’s the right term, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It still is.”
“Splendid. And this is on me.”
James led him into the Edwardian Room, a restaurant Lanham had never been in before. He was gladdened by the sight of two black men in expensive suits at a prominent table. As he passed, he noticed they were speaking French.
Once they were seated, a waiter was at their table in an instant. They ordered drinks, a Bloody Mary for James, a Heineken beer for Lanham.
“Has your memory gotten any better about the perp?” Lanham said.
“Perp?”
“Perpetrator. The killer.”
“Not really, though I’ve been going over everything in my mind. All I can remember is that the fellow had rather tanned skin, and that in a way he reminded me of a movie actor.”
Lanham took a file photo of Bad Bobby Darcy from his pocket and set it gently on the table.
“Is this him?”
A.C. studied the picture for a long moment. “No.”
“You’re sure?”
A.C. looked again. “Well, no, I’m not sure. But I don’t think so. The man struck me as very good looking. Like a male model in a motorcycle ad.”
“This guy is handsome. A real ladies’ man.”
“I suppose there’s a possibility it might have been him,” A.C. said. “But I don’t know. Perhaps if I could see him with a motorcycle helmet on.”
“Maybe that could be arranged.”
“Is he a suspect?”
Lanham paused. “Not necessarily.”
The drinks came. They accepted the menus that were offered, but James set his aside.
“I wanted to talk to you about the man in the limousine I saw, the one at
the curb just before the girl was shot,” he said. “I was thinking about him last night and something occurred to me. I think he’s connected with the models in the show. Probably Molly Wickham, and maybe Camilla Santee. He was at the show. Sitting right behind me.”
James went on to awkwardly relate how he had thought Camilla Santee had been looking at him during the show. “I realize now she was looking at the man seated behind me. I should have realized it at the time. She gave him a hard, very direct look. I don’t know how I could have thought it was directed at me.”
“Wishful thinking, maybe,” Lanham said.
“What? Oh. Yes. Perhaps it was. But she was definitely looking at him. He got up immediately afterward. It’s very clear to me now. And he was the same man out in the limousine. I’m quite sure Molly Wickham was going to his car when she was shot. I remember him clearly now. When he was sitting behind me at the show, I remember that he smelled of whiskey. He had dark, curly hair. He was a tall man, wearing glasses.”
Lanham set his own menu down. “A tall man with glasses? You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“And a white man?”
“Yes. I’m sure of that.”
Lanham took a sip of his beer. He wondered if he was the only one in the room drinking beer. The two French-speaking black men had what looked to be an expensive bottle of wine on their table.
“This is very interesting, Mr. James. Because a man of that description visited Miss Wickham’s apartment shortly after the shooting. He had his own key.”
“Well, there you are.”
“Not unusual for a man to have a key to his mistress’s apartment. The lease was in her name, though, not his. She was renting it from a woman in France. Someone named C.C. Delasante. Ever heard of anyone by that name?”
James shook his head. Lanham reminded himself that he was talking not just to a society gent but a working newsman.
“What I just said is not for quote,” he said. “This isn’t an interview.”
“I understand.”
“We got a lot of prints out of the apartment. If your friend in glasses left his there, maybe we can get an ID on him. Maybe you can help us.”
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